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My Divorce from the Indian Gods When I moved to America, I filed for divine divorce. Irreconcilable differences: they wanted daily prayers, I wanted free speech and self-reliance. We separated amicably. I kept the spices and yoga, they kept the festivals. They got custody of my mother. I got a job, a visa, and a mild identity crisis. And suffering—turns out I did like the colors, the clothes, the music—but I threw out those babies with the god water. For sixteen years we didn’t speak. I ignored their friend requests, unsubscribed from Diwali. Ganesha probably blocked me. Kali rolled her eyes and said, “She’ll crawl back after capitalism.” And she was right. Because one morning, I caught a glimpse of cricket on TV— men in white, grass so green it hurt. Something in me stirred, a muscle memory of school fields where girls were told to sit this one out. I wasn’t mad at the gods, I realize now, just at the men who used them as referees for obedience. Later that week in yoga class, half-heartedly attempting Warrior Pose, I heard the instructor chant Om— Grandma’s familiar closing Om back at home. I smiled, and so, I swear, did they. That evening I lit a candle. “All right,” I said, “let’s talk. ”The gods laughed. “We were never patriarchy, — you just lumped us in with the board of directors. ”We all laughed then— it sounded suspiciously like forgiveness. We met for chai, talked about our differences. They admitted they’d never been mad— just giving me space. I said I was sorry for assuming the gods were as petty as men. We’re remarried now. Open  relationship. They get Sundays and incense. I keep free will, occasional enlightenment, and see other gods too. Mutton Chops Don’t mock my mutton chops. Us  daughters of hairy men let our faces be adorned by these luscious locks. What if we don’t care about unconventional facial hair? Why does your masculinity so easily scare? I owe no duty to your standard of beauty. Call  me eccentric, call me snooty — I’ll wear, with all my grace, this ancestrally inherited lace. Let the sunshine fall upon my fuzzy face — it shall adorn just the same. Humble Pie Before life's end, be sure to try A slice of humble pie, oh my! Your favorite flavor, you won't deny So delectable, you'll sigh Maybe even shed a tear and cry   Topped with buttery crumbles, sweet and light Made of bits of your ego fumbled in life's fight The topping is crunchy, like your hard-fought wins Coats the tongue with the taste your highs and sins   The filling, truly thrilling Eat it slow, God willing You may taste notes of healing Of caramelized wisdom, dreams burned   Of Loves lost, hopes spurned Balanced by windfalls and tables turned A hint of gratitude A pinch of good attitude And that creamy dreamy texture you savor Made by frothing hope that against all odds didn’t waver   Let’s not forget the crust so fine Your unkept promises holding it in line Light and flaky Falls apart, like your intentions shaky Delightfully browned and scorched on the sides Torched with feelings you tried to but couldn’t eventually hide   Humble pie looks and smells divine Cooks only in perfect time In the oven of your heart Fueled by your spirit, only you can get it to jump start This oven sparkles, burning bright Magic humble pie cooks on its own, glowing in its own light Everything about humble pie is just right New Age Romance In fishy waters off the west coast, Where ocean life thrives the most A shy dolphin, her name was Grace  She had the cutest happy dolphin face After a productive feeding dive She noticed annoying sharks arrive One handsome shark, caught her eye  Shiny and dark, swimming sexy and sly. She thought, “Dolphin’s smile, sharks grin Dolphins are nice, deadly, sharks live in sin  Could there ever be a spark? Between a dolphin and a shark I like the sun, he swims in the dark…” California's waters, a paradise grand To stay here a while, she had planned Yet, Mr. Shark was always near Smiling at her, menacing but sincere Gliding effortlessly, muscular and toned, Was he seeking her when she was alone In a fight, dolphins stand strong, She could take him, it wouldn’t even take long Approaching boldly, she said hello “How come you’re there wherever I go” Mr. Shark looked surprised, and not at all mean Amicably introduced himself as Tiger Finn Finn excitedly said  “You’re the most spectacular Dolphin Scratch that, spectacular being I’ve ever seen, I see you don’t have a mate, I think it’s my fate To take you out on delightful romantic date I’ll show you all my favorite spots I like that you snort air, a lot! I wish I could breathe too But I’ll happily just watch you! Together, we’ll feast on some amazing fish! Polar Mackerels and sardines, Yumm! De-lish Have you been to the coral reefs? It’s beautiful beyond belief Have you swum around shipwrecks? Such hauntingly eerie spots to neck..” Ms. Dolphin blushed a deeper shade of tan Had she finally met her man? No one made her feel this way Tongue tied; she didn’t know what to say… “Hi, my name is Amazing Grace I’m feisty, don’t be fooled by the face We are not supposed to mate But who am I to stop fate? You’re hot, so why not!  I’ve been swimming solo a lot I like your toothy smile And it’s really been a while… There’s no rule, against a pairing so cool We’re in the ocean, not a segregated swimming pool Creatures who judge us, let’s pity the fools Would you show me the sights you know? I have a good feeling, so on these dates I’ll go I can’t have your child But I can be sexy and wild And that’s worth something, right?” And then at first light They swam towards the titanic  And indulged in passion manic Pent up love and lust, it felt so good!  A dolphin and a shark totally should! A Mother–Daughter Tartare Pieces of my difficult dead mother, our twisted love — an eternal bother. But I had only her, no other. Oh mother! Dead mother. Mother, our love wasn’t whole. You  let child-me see your ugly soul. Our love was real — painfully so. What should a hurt child know? A woman deals. I remember the good pieces, more and more as my being releases. The cruel ones I put away, to be perused another day. But all our pieces don’t fit. This broken puzzle will never complete. Our story will never be neat, but rest assured, I won’t repeat this tragic, cannibalistic love for a child. My  love will be kind and mild — tempered — a gentle breeze to your tornado. And maybe one day I too will grow some new roots that better suit. Goodbye and farewell, mother. There will never be another beautiful and cruel love like you. What’s a grown woman to do? Rest in peace.I hope I can still release my old wounds, exhumed once more by your death. Why waste more breath keeping score? I pray you haunt me no more. Mother India: The Chip on My Shoulder and the Thorns in My Crown Don’t you dare tell me I’m not India’s. Yes — I speak your tongue, wear your clothes. Yes — I don’t conform to whatever image you hold of Indian women. You , sir, know nothing about us. You think I’m progressive, modern, a woman with a backbone, a feminist — that I speak my mind. Do  you think I became this way just by showing up here — learning the ways of your people? That your country “saved” me? That I am special? I was forged back home. Yes, India is cruel sometimes — especially to her daughters. India is a tough mother, never shielding her children from the cold, hard truth. But she is my mother, and the only mother I will ever have. She taught me well — about this world and those who run it. She taught me what I lack, and taught me to persevere. She taught me to keep pushing even when it’s easy to give up. She taught me she doesn’t care where I live, or whose flag is on my passport — she just wants me to thrive. She’s not a jealous, possessive mother. In fact, she trained me for this very moment. She trained me to survive,to grow a skin so thick and a mind so sharp that nothing fazes me. She trained me to seize my opportunities and live out my choices. She taught me the value of what she never had. She let me feel her sorrows and misfortunes, and burn with purpose. She raises millions like me — millions hungry for her redemption, millions who call her mother, who are proud of her even though they know the world thinks she’s puzzling — a post-colonial, third-first-world yoga land, sprouting STEM employees and exotic spiritual mumbo-jumbo, poverty porn with grand food. Good. She knows her daughters will grow up one day. No  matter where they live, they will remember. They may not shout it from rooftops, but she’s there — like a hug for those she was kind to, and like a chip on the shoulder of those she wasn’t. She knows she couldn’t be everything to everyone. Broken Roots Chasing the glamorous unknown, far away from home, yielded impressive fruits One half the ones I wanted, ripe and juicy, scented with delicious possibilities The other, rotten, unwanted, spoiled, and moldy, decaying with a putrid smell My tree, diseased from not really belonging here, with its broken foreign roots My tree of life is corpulent, stable thick trunk, heavy bosom of glossy green leaves Sheltering me with opulence, makings of a wonderful life, high achieving and free But sadly, the mysterious disease spreads underground and manifests in sick fruit Roots that won’t take what this land gives without a fuss, my tree of life grieves No cure for this, for a grown tree can’t be moved easily, it was displaced long ago When it was but a young sapling, softer, malleable – driven to thrive against all odds Parched roots gratefully drinking unfamiliar nourishment, it forgot it was a tree Thought it was a rolling stone, now it seeks its home, cries for there is nowhere to go The roots have rebelled against this land that gives, but also takes in unequal measure I can turn a blind eye, unfeelingly accept compromise, but my tree can’t lie to itself Leaves whisper hard feelings, from prejudiced dealings, they know they don’t have a voice “I can bear you fruit, from which a new sapling would shoot, but it wouldn’t have a choice  It wouldn’t belong, So - I will slowly perish. I no longer cherish these foreign pleasures”. The Tree Butterfly She doesn’t hover at every bloom— some sweetnesses shine, but sour too soon. She waits where blossoms brave the breeze and sips pretty whispers high on trembling trees. She’s not here to compete with bees, their frantic work, their colonies. She drinks with grace, doesn’t overindulge; her thirst refined, her senses culled. Not every nectar earns her flight; she tests the air, she tastes the light. Above the meadow’s easy charms, she feeds from risk, from lofty arms. Her love’s not hunger, but design— selective, sacred, self-aligned. Even longing learns to climb; even choice can be divine. Shades of Belonging Back at birth home, where the sunshine remembers my face, where the colors shine so bright, where familiar, long-lost spices set my tongue ablaze— so many heartfelt delights! However, if I had to choose freely, the part of my trip that heals my immigrant blues is that upon my return, I am finally among thousands with that matching golden hue. Back at chosen home in my white-washed life, I cannot help but scan every space I’m in for anyone with a kindred tan. I don’t wish to befriend— just to understand. My impromptu demographic surveys remind me— I’m not part of this land. Here’s the catch: you can have a passport, but never truly belong if the face you wear doesn’t match the song. Cry Me a Philadelphia River Philadelphia, my city, has not one but two rivers— a mother and her child. I favor the mother’s banks; at the Delaware waterfront I pray, contemplate, say my thanks. At the Schuylkill—her child— I am a child: I eat, I run, I catch sunsets. I’ve only called Philly home in recent years, but the two rivers help me forget that I am not really from here. Sometimes I sit quietly at the Delaware’s edge and think of things this river has seen: a country’s birth, a people’s death, ships, mills, bridges, towns, and cities— all a blip to her. She’s on a different timeline, a different plane of existence. Perhaps that one makes more sense. I ponder river immortality and my kinship with the thousands before me who have sat somewhere like here, with her and her child. Whether we were hurting or not, she has comforted us along this Philadelphia mile. A river always knows where she goes— and I, I don’t even know about tomorrow. I try to be more grounded, and I find it’s easiest to do not just on the ground, by trees with my feet in grass, but by a river— this river. At the Delaware waterfront— a thousand books I’ve read, fifteen years, so many skins I’ve shed, journal entries till my feelings bled out into her. Pretty thoughts, shitty thoughts— here I river-watch, people-watch, sky-watch, connect the dots between my flow, her flow, the cosmic flow of energy and all this synergy I get to enjoy: the Delaware River’s sexy moonlit glow, her daily fiery orange sunshow. These always move me— these are truly free. And as I sit,I imagine she’s flowing through me, and suddenly I am the Delaware. Life  just is— it’s neither fair nor unfair. I relax, bit by bit, at this man-made pier, thinking about my year in a city held by two rivers. I am, very much, a believer in the magic of water. Despite all its terrestrial commotion, Philadelphia is held by the ocean. Even far from shore— and there’s so much more to timeless rivers, eternal givers. We do nothing to preserve them. We do not deserve them. Shreya Datta is a poet whose work has appeared in Lighten Up Online, Rue Scribe, Poets Choice, Wingless Dreamer Press, and Moonstone Press. Born in India and based in the United States, she writes about diaspora, femininity, myth, food, and the small rebellions that make a life.

Glossy acrylic latex paint Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer.  Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer.  I say this twice more driving into Dove Meadow Retail Complex. No way I’m going to get mugged off by the guy in Paint Passion or, more importantly, let him know I’m the type of person that doesn’t know anything about paints and, ergo, am not very handy or outdoorsy and probably just some soft-fingered digital nomad that writes marketing copy all day. Which I’m not. I have eczema. I sometimes wear gloves to hide it, but even on this balmy November afternoon, I’m gloveless. Rough skin out, calloused and proud. Really authenticates my workwear get-up.  I pull up my Prius alongside a white van outside Tool Planet. I swap my Birkenstocks for Caterpillars and light a ciggie. Three tokes are enough for the odour to stick to my fingers and chore jacket, which I got second-hand when I was in Philly, so yeah, bonafide Rust Belt. Unlike Freddie’s. I know he buys his Carhartt at Flex. I wiggle my jaw in the car mirror and rough up my beard.  Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer.  Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer.  I stroll, workmanlike, from Tool Planet to Cooper’s Wires to Paint Passion. The sliding doors part and I’m confronted with my first unexpected challenge: tins.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I expected Paint Passion to sell paint tins - that’s why I’m here - but I didn’t think every paint tin would look like, literally, identical. You can’t even differentiate by brand or colour or — I feel a clammy drip under my trucker cap. I didn't check what size I needed. All these tins are like small barrels. Do I really need that much paint to turn some gourds into Christmas decorations? I doubt it. But I can’t ask now can I? Would blow my cover. ChatGPT said wood and gourd paint were very similar, so if the store assistant asks, I’m painting an old bench. Much more…what’s the word? Workmanlike. Yeah.  Despite my confusion, I don’t hover around the entryway like some confused non-painty white-collar dufus. I make a beeline for Aisle One. I want to show the store assistant that I’m in a hurry. A got-to-get-to-the-next-job-stat kinda hurry. In Aisle One, I start reading words I sort of know but also sort of don’t - matte, silk, sheen, eggshell - until the dark blue uniform comes into view. Bogey at high noon. He’s scrawnier than the pot bellied, old-timer with greased hair and working class accent that I imagined, which makes him even more terrifying. He’s a contemporary. That’s a whole new level of judgment.  His name tag says Marc. He smiles with smoker’s teeth that, ironically, could do with a lick of paint.  ‘Y’alright mate, where’s your glossy acrylic latex? Swear it used to be ‘ere.’ I say, a bit too quickly.  ‘Glossy acrylic latex?’ Marc says. He’s just had a coffee; his breath engulfs me.  ‘Yeah, oil-based,’ I say.  ‘How much do you need?’ ‘Nuff for this old bench I’m doin’ up.’ I arrange my face into a practiced tut. ‘The stuff people throw away these days, eh?’ Marc looks at me weirdly. I realise that line was set up for the pot-bellied old-timer greaseball as a way of building camaraderie and not for a contemporary, with bad teeth, bad breath, and actually, really nice skin.  I roll up my sleeves and crack my wrists, performatively.  ‘What’s the bench made out of?’ Marc says.  ‘Wood.’ ‘What type of wood?’  For some reason, the only words I can think of are varnished and timber. ‘Oak’, I say.  ‘You sure you want glossy acrylic latex paint with an oil-based primer?’ Marc says. I shrug like an Italian. ‘Sure, it’s got the durability and weather-resistance for most woods, but for oak, I’d go chalk-based. Nice matte finish. Outdoor bench, I take it?’ Our Christmas tree will be 100% indoors, in the corner of my and Tilly’s one-bed. Right where Peanut, our cockapoo, sleeps. I haven’t told Tilly yet, but I’m going to paint Peanut’s face on my gourd decorations when we do them this weekend. She’ll love that.  ‘Yeah, outdoor, but a bit indoor too,’ I say. ‘Like on a porch. You know, outdoor, but covered.’ He studies my face. ‘Near my shed,’ I lie.  ‘Right, well acrylic latex paint is better when exposed to the elements,’ Marc says. ‘Doesn't fade, crack, quick drying, all this you know.’  I suppress my smirk with sincere, workmanlike nodding. ‘Yeah, yeah. I used it for my shed.’ ‘Honestly, though, if I were you, the chalk-based paint would look nicer and do a decent protection job if it’s sheltered from the worst of the elements.’ I think of our little tree sheltered between the bookcase and the ottoman.  ‘Yeah, it will be,’ I say. ‘Alright, chalk it is.’ Marc nods. I follow him wordlessly to Aisle Five, feeling like I’m not just getting away with it, but nailing it. I can't wait to rub it in Freddie’s face. Not literally, obviously, it’s just Freddie bangs about those gardening tools he inherited from his grandpa’s estate as if he were Alan fucking Titchmarsh. And don’t even get me started on Tim’s motorcycle chat. One year he had that Vespa and now he’s constantly saying words like carburetor, alternator and fork leaks like a regular greasemonkey.  Marc crouches down on his haunches. I join him. A handy man’s squat.  ‘This,’ he says, holding a can the size of a baby, ‘is our new range from Morris & Macpherson - so you know, good paints.’ Sounds a bit fancy for my liking - no Granocryl or Hammerite I’d seen earlier - but I nod anyway.  ‘What colour are you after?’ Marc asks.  Peanut is liver-coloured. But I need some white for the background and obviously some red and green for the general festive vibe like we saw at the Tulleybridge Christmas Market. ‘Well, I’ve actually got quite a few jobs comin’ up, all oak, so maybe I'll getta couple. Brown, green, red, white, that sorta thing.’ ‘Sure,’ he says. He gets four tins. Cafe Luxe, Scandinavian Forest, Emperor’s Silk and Portland Pebble.  They all sound a bit interior for my liking. I bet Granocryl and Hammerite’s paints are called something more simple and workmanlike: Bear, Grass, Blood, Stone.  I inspect the one litre tin of Cafe Luxe. £26.50. I scratch my hands to show off my callouses.  ‘Ok, I’ll ‘ave a think.’ I think that over £100 seems quite a lot for a few gourd decorations. ‘Thanks’, I add pointedly, so he leaves.  I keep an eye on Marc in my peripheries. As soon as he turns out the aisle, I check ChatGPT. Turns out, I can buy a small set of multiple-paint colours in mini-pots at the arts and crafts store near our apartment. £10 all in. And ‘perfect for gourds’. Yay.  I stand up. Marc is loitering around the corner of the aisle, no doubt waiting to mug my attention.  We catch eyes. ‘Looks good,’ I say, ‘but I’m gonna ‘ave a think. Need to cost it up, you know.’  He nod-shrugs. I nod-shrug back. Then strut out the store workmanlike.   Confessions of a Club Toilet So they play this song, yeah, in the club I work at. It’s all about shaking that booty and there’s this line yeah, which goes: ‘I get mo’ ass than a toilet seat’.  And I’m always like: doubt it, bruv. And I’d know, being a toilet seat and all.  To be fair, I’m a club toilet, in the men's, so most ass tryta avoid me. If I wrote a rap, the lyric would go: ‘I get mo’ pees than fish and chips’. Na’ mean? I get puke too. Vom normally in the bowl tho. And my lid is coke central. The crowd in this joint obviously never heard of keys - why would you snort anything off a toilet?  But I don’t mind. Snorters are way better than the sprinklers, sprayers and shitters.  And I’ve got it lucky. I only work weekend evenings. I got mates in offices workin’ the reverse 5:2. And those poor bowls at train stations: 7 day shifts, 18 hours per day. No fuckin’ way bruv.  That’s not right. We need a union or someink. Or at least more attendants. My first club had this guy, right, had some kind of speech impediment or whatever as he was always saying these rhymes like ‘no spray, no lay’. ‘No splash, no gash.’ ‘No Armani, no poonani’.  Weird bloke. Sold lollies. In a toilet.  Should have sold funnels. Men in that club would just sway and spay all over me like they was waterin’ plants in a drought.  But, gotta hand it to ‘im, it never smelled that bad in there and it was all over by 3am.  Unlike this one gig I had. Big club, big toilets. Me and five others. 12-hour shifts, 10 til 10. Music growled non-stop. Bass honestly shook my cistern, man. Serious. But that’s pretty much the only thing that did. Hardly anyone peed. I remember this one guy, right, standin’ with his shrunken knob out, yeah, eyes wide, speakin’ to himself, willin’ himself to pee. 30 minutes he waited.  I do remember a coupla gross shits and vomits, but mostly the men in those big clubs come in, unzip, get a bag out, snort, and flush an empty bowl. Which I don’t mind, cos it feels like gargling innit. Funny tho. When I think bout it. I’ve been slept on, I’ve been fucked on, I’ve been drawn on, I’ve been flyered on, but I wouldn’t change it. You learn a lot of weird-ass shit in toilets. And one day, we’ll rise up and shit on you. Beetle is a UK-based copywriter with a weird name. When he’s not writing words for other people, he likes to write weird, funny and dark short stories - mostly about everyday people in unusual situations or unusual people in everyday situations.

Thirty years ago, my best friend John died. In his honour and in my fog of grief, I rescued a beautiful mutt puppy in Montreal, the city where he died. I named her Zoey, Greek for "life". Wanting to be the most excellent of good mummies but having very little money, I found a wee guest house in Los Angeles for the two of us. The structure was more shack than house but, oh, the yard! It was huge, and anchored by an extraordinary orange tree that perfumed my Spring evenings with the most delicate, elegant scent. And every Christmas, those sexy, succulent oranges, finally ripe for the picking, graced my holiday table.  The clay-packed soil in the yard was a bitch to work with but I managed. I scoured Freecycle and Craigslist for free plants and was amazed by my good fortune. However, it meant digging up seven rose bushes on a particularly blisteringly hot California afternoon (in The Valley, no less), and hauling enormous aloe bushes in the trunk of my sedan, careful to travel down back alleys and side streets because my trunk was too full to close and I was afraid the police might stop me. Eventually, I rescued three more beautiful mutt puppies and, of course, they rode along, air conditioner blasting, so there was simply no room for the plants inside the car.  We did this for years. And years. And years. Over time, through dint of hard work, love for my babies, and my complete adoration of all things "nature", I had created Eden. My Eden. My perfect, happy place. Just me, my dogs, my oranges and roses, and a honeysuckle vine right outside my bedroom window where, late one evening while gathered around my outdoor fire pit, both of us high on hash, a friend taught me how to gently suck the nectar from the blossom. It was one of the most sensual experiences I think I've ever had. I also adored my scarlet trumpet vines that looped through the hurricane fence, the orange and yellow canna lilies that, once rooted, miraculously spread themselves out along the side of my neighbor's periwinkle garage. The verboten but glorious giant bamboo stalks that snaked from under my neighbor's fence, providing the perfect green privacy screen.  Oh, and tea. Always, always a cup of bancha tea. Oftentimes, I'd find myself singing Cohen's lyrics from "Suzanne" as I indulged in tea and oranges - though mine didn't come all the way from China. At night, my dogs, Zoey, Liam, Kipp and True, would sit on the lawn furniture and watch for possums scooting along the telephone wires while I'd lie flat on my back on the patio, gazing at the stars.   Did I mention the birds? Dammit, it was a 24-hour assault! God knows what species were chirping away during the day but all night long there was always a lone Mockingbird that refused to sleep. He'd only stop his racket when a Mourning Dove cooed just before dawn broke. Eventually, thankfully, the bird noise became the adorable soundscape of my day, soothing my nerves left frazzled by weekdays spent at jobs I loathed. My dogs, my garden, my Eden, became like a smooth rock I'd pop in my pocket for comfort and touch periodically throughout the day to remind myself that I was a soul of nature, not a cog in the wheel of corporate America bleeding my days away in an airless cubicle.  But time passes. And, as the Buddhists annoyingly insist, everything changes, nothing remains the same and so....and so. And so Zoey died in 2010. And I became sick in 2011. Liam died in 2014. I could no longer work. I lost my Eden,and moved back to Toronto. Grateful, of course, but wounded beyond belief. I fear sometimes, beyond repair. Kipp passed in 2018 and now, my last little man, True, passed three weeks ago. I have a small, rent-controlled apartment with a view from my front windows of a huge brick building. I'm right downtown. Folks tell me they'd kill to live so centrally located in The St. Lawrence Market area. Farmer's markets every day, an antique market every weekend, outdoor bands, local streets closed off to traffic so pedestrians can lounge among the picnic benches strategically placed along the cobblestone streets so folks can eat their local goodies while they ‘people watch’. Today, they were giving away free ice cream on Market Street.  Yet my heart is broken. My babies are all gone, my Eden is no more, and I'm desolate and despairing - no amount of free ice cream or cobblestone streets is going to change that.  I know I'm not unique in this. I know we've all been touched by loss, change, and disappointment. However,  I'm not resilient. I'm not a "bounce back" kinda gal. On the contrary, I'm more of a shatter-at-the-slightest-bump-in-the-road kinda gal. I know it has a lot to do with my childhood. And, again, I know I'm not unique in this. But, hey, I have some major abandonment issues that, despite my best efforts, have failed to resolve or heal. My  mother left us for a new life and moved far across the country when I was a young adolescent and we never talked about it. We simply weren't allowed to.  Across the country eventually became out of the country, determined as she was to wash her hands of us completely.   My father decided that he, too, needed to escape the responsibilities of child rearing, so he took that summer off - and every subsequent summer - to tour Europe on his own. Winters he spent skiing...somewhere. I'm sure he must have told us where but I can no longer recall, it's all a haze.  My father's presence in the house was so remote that I referred to him as That Man.  That Man who remained barricaded behind his newspaper when I stood at his knee, age six, trying desperately to impress him with my nascent reading ability.  That Man who gave me Valium when my mother left because talking to me was too intimate.  That Man who, when I left home at 17 and my brother asked him if he missed me, replied, "Out of sight, out of mind".  And you know, we didn't talk about any of that, either.  It was as though that's just what parents did - leave; or remain present, yet absent.  That infamous, caustic, WASP repression was the culprit, no doubt, so I didn't make any attempts at Truth and Reconciliation with my parents until I was well into my 20s. And, oh, the Humanity! It was the Hindenburg every time. Epic crash and burn. The response was always absolute denial - or wailing tears. But never compassion or curiosity or contrition. And I mention all of this now, right now, because at this moment I'm really missing my Eden. Without it, life has been pretty fucking stark. Eden - nature, dogs - has been a soothing parent. A respite. A place where I feel understood and connected. A soft place to land. A friend recently gave me the beautiful gift of a visit to her palatial treehouse of a  cottage, built by her talented partner, tucked away beside a gorgeous lake on Vancouver Island. We had a wonderful two weeks whale watching, drinking apple cider, loving on her five dogs (thank you, Rollo, for the morning kisses), admiring her dahlias and daisies, playing Yahtzee and smoking wicked marijuana. They were terrific hosts and so patient with my grief. But I've come home to True's ashes in a burlap bag on my dining room table, his bed untouched, and a living room littered with heartfelt sympathy cards and a plethora of my snotty tissues.  I just can't stop crying. I'm writing about it all here and now because, if I don't, I'll scream. I'll lose my mind. I'll fall off the edge of the earth. Hold your fur babies close tonight. Nourish those gorgeous flowers in your garden. Never abandon your children. And rest in the knowledge that nature heals. It's alive, its pulse mirrors our heartbeats because we belong to each other. Erin started acting professionally as a young adolescent, only recently discovering the profound relief and release of writing her own stories.  She lives in Toronto.

Two days before my twenty-first birthday, I emailed my father after nearly a decade. The last I’d heard of him, he was in Nepal, to which my mother scoffed that he’d rather take care of a couple of monks than his daughter. I said, Ammi , I said that she couldn’t say that. Someone could hear, Ammi . I wish he had heard. I am bitter and I stalk his Flickr photos and see him ringing a Tibetan singing bowl and I wish my mother’s words rang in his ears like he was getting hazed at a Berkeley frat. My mom will always say what I will think and I will always chastise her for it. I am so bitter and I am only twenty-one. I emailed him nothing but a YouTube  link to Shakira’s Chantaje . Sent from my iPhone. It’s the only song by  Shakira that my mom does zumba to. One, two, three. One, two, three. One I’m bridging these, two divorced souls together in the catastrophe claustrophobic cubicle of an email is what I am doing, three. Nobody is doing it like me. I am twenty-one with grey hairs sprouting already, but they love Shakira and they love me. So he will be so ecstatic to have heard from his daughter that he hasn’t seen since she was eleven and wore velcro Twinkle-Toes.  He was not.  I am ravenously buying subpar sourdough at Safeway and gawk at his nascent response and laugh extremely loudly and tongue my cheek neurotically. I say fuck the subpar sourdough and I say, wow. I say Baba ’s lost his hair but not his humor! I sugarcoat it. If he sees no need to sugarcoat what cannot be taken with a grain of salt, then I will. I defy him. I rebuke him! He says, Shreya, why do you care so much now if you did not then? I think, true. I get a kind of Catholic guilt over an apathetic amateur me who could not tie her shoes and hid beneath velcro straps. I get a sort of sick swell in the pit of my stomach over my Flickr slideshow that plays back all the moments where I did not care. Chantaje  by Shakira plays in the background and the  slideshow stops when I learned to ride a bike without my trainer wheels.  He wasn’t there when I learned how. My neighbor’s dad taught me his children were only babies. I feel like I’m in debt for the use of  their father before they could. I feel like I’m in debt all the time. I feel like I’m in debt to the sink for cooking a meal so when I make pasta, I’ll steer clear of the strainer. I use a fork and then reuse it to eat. Less things to clean. Less things to pay back.  Nor was my father there when I realized that the world is much bigger than Wisconsin. And for the sake of my good conscience, I ought to keep up with the current global events! I ought to know the affairs of small-c communist China, what yams to eat to prevent male pattern baldness, and why my dad only came home on Fridays for an hour.  He would sit in the room in the basement and I thought the basement was dark and cold and I was scared but I lied and said I would not go down because I did not care so I did not know what he liked. Caribou Coffee, American Spirits, and Shakira CDs. He did not like opening the blinds in his room, my mother’s side of the family, and when he lost a bet. His fists shook.  The worst part of being honest with myself is that I was the gamble lost that loosened his once usurping hands. The worst thing about being honest with you is that I loved the pity. I loved it like I was Carrie Bradshaw. I loved it like a new pair of shoes.  Even before the divorce, my mom enrolled the both of us in a recovery support group that met on Sundays on top of the Wells Fargo she worked at. A co-worker recommended it! Co-workers love recommending. And the other divorced moms all had a smoker’s patronizing nonchalance about them that I look for in all of my crushes now. I see a smoker on Hinge and I go, oh yeah. The kids and the grown-ups were segregated and we had to craft grief wands to wave and I thought, oh yeah. I’m going to wave my wand so hard and will my parents back together. This arranged marriage is going to be rearranged. But before that, I’m going to charm one of these ladies into pinching my cheeks and asking how old I am. Yes ma’am, I am so young and darling and none of my toys are scribbled on. I keep my Barbies’ clothes on and I eat my vegetables and only throw away my bananas. My teachers still call me a bright young girl and I’m not troubled. I never even liked him that much anyway. Surely, my mom is my whole world and I’m thankful for the distance. I’m going to make them all love me. I have the best fucking grief wand in Wells Fargo. My grief wand was an invalid and my mother pretends there was no floor on top of Wells Fargo. I am curious in a spiteful manner and I pick at the scabs on my scalp until the blood cakes and I ask her where my wand wafted off to then. I am too bitter and her birthday is next week. I am too bitter and I did not reply to his email. He did not follow up and I am not a follower, not even of God. I spend all my time battering my bitterness that I do not know what my mom likes now either. Swatches, God, and intermittent fasting. She does not  like when I forget to call, living in an apartment, and failure. I fail to call and I live in an apartment and I am sorry. She would like to get back with my dad.  Nice.  What if this was said when we all lived together? When the fire station was across the street from our house, and the firefighters could douse away the burning soot of their affairs. They could tell him to put out his cigarette. It’s a hazard, they would say and then I would say, whatever you say, beautiful. I love firefighters. We could get Caribou coffee and… But what if nothing was said at all? I wish she had said nothing at all. I wish she hated him so much that the thought of his voice crumbled impenetrable objects to shards in her soft little fist. No, on the ground. I don’t want to hurt her. Sometimes I wish she hated him so much that she couldn’t stand to look at me. ‘Get!’ , she would say and ‘Go!’, I would, happily. I would do anything for her. I would look to the sun for every waking moment of my life to prune my eyes, his eyes, from her.  I want to get her a Tibetan singing bowl for her birthday. I’m not cruel. This isn’t a callback to my dad’s Flickr. She likes to pray and I like to pretend. She likes to play the Tibetan singing bowl at the holistic shop with the welcome mat urging us to Namastay Here. And here I smudge my dirty, filthy, no-good runner’s feet for longer than needed until the white shopkeeper stares. I have my dad’s feet. Size twelve and the wide kind that makes me need Doctor Scholls’ and Clarks’ and to give away my kitten heels from Steve Madden because they are a lowballed size nine from Depop. We take up so much space, my dad and I. We deserve a discount, I joke, but Ammi does not hear. I am so bitter and she just plays and I play pretend. Shreya Dharavath is a Wisconsinite transplant in California, studying politics and hating politics and just trying her best. Her work focuses on the bittersweetness of missing those one lets go of first.

By the time Marian reaches the exclamation point, the felt cone rubs only a dry, stuttery line across the paper. Irritation grinds up her spine. Ruined. All ruined . Pulling up a gob of spit, she runs the marker tip along the crease of her tongue to juice it back up. Bitterness bleeds, tingling, toward the edges and into her tonsils. She scrubs the itch of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the backs of her teeth, then folds herself back over the paper. At first, the ink runs thin and too watery, but soon enough it flows into the gaps, and discouragement seeps away as, letter by letter, she retraces her work.  “What do you think?” she asks, holding up the sign.  Sophie looks up from rummaging through the tub of dress-up clothes. “You look like an okapi,” she murmurs, voice warm with admiration.  Marian sticks out her tongue, looking cross-eyed to see where the streak of black down the center fades to blue in an inky gradient. She rolls her eyes at her sister and sticks her tongue out further. “Okay, but what do you think?” she asks again, shaking the paper.  LIMMITED RUN! ONE NIGHT ONLY! While she waits for Sophie’s response, Marian plays it all out in her mind: they’ll stage the performance in the living room, the coffee table shoved to one side. Their parents, captivated by the drama, will forget the icy edges of their distance and be drawn together, their shoulders kissing.  “You misspelled ‘limited,’” says Sophie. “There’s only supposed to be one ‘m’.” Marian’s mirage evaporates. “Oh, how do you know?”  “It’s the wrong shape.” Sophie shrugs and scoops up an armful of costumes, letting them waterfall over her wrists and back into the tub. “What play are we doing? Robin Hood?”  Ever since Marian discovered her name twin in the pages, it’s been her favorite form of pretend. She’s made Sophie spend hours dashing through their backyard Sherwood Forest with an imaginary bow and arrow, saving Maid Marian. “Not this time. We need something original for this occasion.”  Sophie nods. She doesn’t ask what the occasion is. Instead, she asks what costumes she should be looking for, anyway.  “I’ll need something elegant. Oh, and I think we should have a bear.” “A bear?” “Miss Meadows says that the most compelling stage direction of all time is exit, pursued by bear .” “But what does that mean?” Sophie asks.  “Stage directions tell the actors where to move and how to deliver their lines.” “Yeah, but–” “It means the actor has to leave the stage, chased by a bear. It’s dramatic .” Marian rolls her eyes. Her little sister might be a genius speller, but she has no grasp of the theatrical. A bear, properly placed, will heighten the emotional stakes of the play. She reaches past Sophie and digs through the box, pulling a fur pillbox hat from the depths. “Voila,” she declares, setting it on her sister’s head and tugging it down over her ears. “Grrr.” Sophie swipes a flat-fisted paw across the air and twists her mouth into a snarl, but her growl disintegrates instantly to giggles. From downstairs, a cupboard door hits its frame with a sharp report and double-bang aftershock. The laughter slips off Sophie’s face. Marian rubs the soles of her feet against her shins, right and then left and right again, scraping off the prickle from the vibrating floorboards. “I think we should perform tomorrow,” says Marian over their parents’ raised voices. “We’ll have to rehearse hard, but we can be ready.” And then, low enough that she can imagine Sophie won’t hear: “We’re running out of time.” # By dinner, their parents have yelled themselves out and retreated to opposite sides of the table. They shoot glances, furtive and furious and calculating and despairing, across four feet of shellacked wood, toward anything but each other. Sophie and Marian trade okapi facts and acting tips, pretending their way toward normalcy. Reminding their parents they’re still there.  “Did you ever notice that in a play, characters never face each other directly? They tilt themselves out a bit so the audience can see their expressions,” says Marian, a strand of spaghetti trailing from her fork.  “Speaking of plays, I see that we’re in for a performance tomorrow night,” says their dad, focusing on her for the first time.  Marian blushes and nods, clamping down her smile at the corners.  “Well, what’s it called?” “Exit–” “Yes, Exit ,” Marian says, cutting Sophie off with a glare. For maximum dramatic impact, the bear needs to be a surprise.  “Intriguing,” says their father, looking between them before fixing his gaze back on the salt shaker.  “Yes.” Their mom’s voice sounds clogged and higher-pitched than normal. “Is it a comedy or a tragedy?” “Tragedy,” Marian says. She imagines her own body sprawled across the stage, dead or dying or grievously injured, transmitting the pain directly into her parents. Into her mother, who would be forced to look, finally, at the stage. And at her.  “Comedy,” says Sophie at the same time, looking at their dad.  Marian sees the look. She, too, has noticed how even her dad’s laugh lines look forlorn, drooping down, fleeing the concentration groove deepening between his eyebrows.  “Well, whatever it ends up being, we can’t wait,” says their mom, marching a smile onto her face.  Finally, they’ll understand the pain they’re causing,  thinks Marian.  A wooly-thick silence settles between them, different somehow from the old ones when they chewed bites of food and mined their days for stories. “So where are we going?” asks Sophie, just when the humming tension builds up so high that Marian is afraid her bones might rattle apart with the force of it.  “Going?” The pressure ratchets higher. Marian thinks her sister looks stricken, like a deer caught in headlights. Or an okapi.  “Earlier. You said something about a hotel.” Sophie mumbles into the tangled nest of noodles on her plate.  So it’s Marian who sees what Sophie does not: their mom’s white-knuckled grip on her fork, the flush of mottled red across their dad’s neck.  “No one’s going anywhere,” their mom says evenly.   “Actually,” says their dad, his words smothered under the scrape of chair legs as he drags himself back from the table, “I’m going out to the garage.” # “Stage right. You have to enter from stage right!” says Marian, gesturing to the other side of the room. All morning, she’s been trying to get Sophie to remember the blocking. Her scattered sister keeps making it through a scene only to go for a costume change and miss her cue entirely, staring blankly at the closed door of Marian’s bedroom. “I thought I did.” She scowls.  A hot prickle of shame washed over Marian. All morning, she’s been barking commands. Sophie’s playing a wicked witch, a guard, a daring prince (and a bear, of course) opposite Marian’s damsel in distress in a play that’s something like Robin Hood meets Snow White meets whatever Shakespeare play has the bear. Sophie can’t remember who she’s supposed to be next, never mind what side of the room she’s supposed to enter from. And while she can remember that she’s not supposed to laugh when Marian collapses in a faint, fends off an attack, and dies a flailing, gruesome death, giggles keep sneaking out anyway. Marian’s temper has worn thin, and they aren’t any more ready than they were yesterday.  Sophie tugs the fur hat lower and drops her lip into a pout. “I’m never going to get this in time.” “Well, that scary bear face is on point.” Marian sighs. “Think of it this way–you have to sneak up behind me. If you enter from stage left, I would be able to see you coming and run away. It would ruin the effect entirely.” Flopping her head back, Sophie trudges across the room and takes her position on the stage right side of the rug.  Maybe it doesn’t matter, anyway, Marian tells herself: she could try  to run away if she saw a bear coming, but bears are fast. Besides, the scariest things are the ones you can see coming. The ones you still can’t escape.  # When their mom walks in for the performance, she takes one look at the empty chair beside their dad and tugs the ottoman out from the corner for herself. Peering out from the hall closet-turned-dressing-room, Marian watches her perch on the edge, angled forward and tensed like she’s about to take a test. Or take off.  The jolt in Marian’s ribs catches her off guard; she looks down, ready to chew out Sophie for running into her, but there’s nothing there. Nothing but dismay that her plan is already failing.  “Mom, could you . . .?” Marian gestures toward the chairs, but lets her sentence fizzle into nothing at the sight of her mom’s glazed face.  “Hmm? Oh, of course, honey,” says her mom vaguely, getting up and opening the door.  The breeze, cool in the wake of the June afternoon, sweeps the skin on Marian’s forearms into goosebumps. Her mom settles back on her cushion, even further from their father than before. Marian clenches her molars, clamping down on the rising despair.  Their parents laugh just like Sophie when Marian faints at the sight of the wicked witch, although they hide it better. Sophie, clearly elated by their amusement, lets loose her wickedest cackle and takes a second lap around Marian’s slumped form before flying off the stage and behind the couch for a costume change.  When Sophie, dressed as the guard, patrols the perimeter, Marian chances a glance up and sees her mom’s glassy-eyed stare somewhere left of the action.  It’s hopeless. This time, when Marian feels the grip on her chest, she recognizes it. But the show must go on , she thinks, and she channels her anguish into her next line: “I will not be so easily pushed aside. I will never lose hope with so worthy a task.” In her bear costume, standing on a chair with tree branches threaded through the rungs, Sophie cups her hand over her eyes like a visor and sweeps her gaze back and forth across the stage. Their dad’s face is still stiff, but with a half smile that pushes his laugh lines closer to where they belong. Sophie’s growl is ferocious.  The gasp is almost inaudible.  Marian, seeing her mom’s genuine, unforced surprise, feels a thrill shiver up her backbone. It’s working , she thinks.  Sophie turns at the half-sound, just in time to see the shadow flap wildly through the door, cartwheeling haphazardly before crash landing downstage from her tree-chair. She jumps down to get a closer look at the bat. Like the okapi with its horse face and zebra-striped butt, the bat is a mishmash of parts: the soft-furred torso and sleek-rubbery wings like a tiny teddy bear in a leather jacket. She drops to a crouch beside it and breathes in rapid time with its crumpled, heaving body.  “Don’t touch it. It’s probably ill.” Their father’s voice is a wire strung tight.  “I won’t,” their mom replies. Her sleeve brushes up against Sophie’s arm as she reaches toward it anyway. “But we can’t leave it here. We have to get it outside. Get me something to scoop it up.” Marian darts into the kitchen. She slides back into the room with a Tupperware in one hand and the lid in the other, presenting them like an offering.  Their mom tips the bowl over the bat.  “Now what?” asks Sophie, resting her chin on the floor. The scuffed plastic blurs the body, turning the creature into a warped illustration of itself.  “I don’t know. Let me think.”  The wings whisper and rap against the sides. Marian jumps back.   “Can you slide something underneath to scoop it up?” asks their dad.  The lid only shoves the bat to one side, smooshing it against the far wall of its suffocating cage.  “I need something thinner,” says their mom.  Marian runs out to the stoop and pulls a circular from the newspaper.  “Perfect.” Their dad lifts his laugh lines, but there’s no smile underneath. “Okay, hold it steady . . .” As their mom lifts the edge of the Tupperware, he slides the tagboard underneath.  The flapping inside turns to thrashing, and a wing slips out, protruding from the gap. “Careful!” Sophie gasps.  Crepey, leathery skin stretches over impossibly delicate bones. Marian can see the unnatural angle of the wing, hear the bat’s ultrasonic cries as the plastic scrapes its tissue.  Their mom lifts the bowl and recaptures the wing. Their dad slips his hand under the campaign flier, and together they lift it off the floor, a captive in flight.  Together, their parents walk the creature outside. Marian gulps air into suddenly clotted lungs and follows, her skirt trailing in the grass, her hands clenched in desperate fists. She blinks back tears, watching them cradle between them a thing already half dead.  Sophie trails behind. Nudging up against Marian’s side, she grips her hand. Marian squeezes back. Together, they watch their parents work shoulder to shoulder, voices gentled, as they slide the injured animal into the shade of the hydrangea, looking for signs of life.  A native of the Pacific Northwest and a recovering English teacher, Lindsey James draws inspiration for her writing from the people and landscapes of eastern Washington State. Her previous work appears or is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Necessary Fiction, Heavy Feather Review, Vast Chasm, Brilliant Flash Fiction , and elsewhere.

I was told to walk deliberately, rehearsed. One careful step at a time, so the click of my stilettos wouldn’t pollute the silence or intrude on anyone’s thoughts. Not to turn my head, show a grimace, or even shift the curve of my lips or brows when commented on. Not to flinch or stir, not even at an obvious brush, a shove, or under the weight of a fixed gaze. That’s how you avoid a dog. You can’t outrun a dog. He’ll chase you down and tear you apart. You can’t ask for help. Who are you? A girl with no mother? Or a weak, pathetic girl whose mother taught her nothing? That was my mother’s advice. I get it. She’s met many dogs in her life, and she survived. Thrived, some would say. Our rented apartment, filled with beautiful things that carry no story; my private college degree, debt-free; and the respectful nods from conservative neighbors are proof enough. But today, I have no patience. I wanted to arrive early. I couldn’t risk missing it. It has finally called for me. It wants me. Me. Imagine. So I run. Not like a lady, like something uncultured. Like a fugitive. I spit in the direction of the barks, no longer pretending they were mere comments. The strap of my dress slips. I crash through puddles and potholes, leaving the heels of my expensive shoes behind, broken in the hole-filled tiles of the footpath. I am disheveled, impure. Feeling my heartbeat in my mouth and ears, I rejoice in her, this wild version of me, drunk on want. It’s intoxicating. I don’t stop at any horns, whistles, or warning signs. I nearly trip when some letters are hurled at me along with suffocating smoke breath and wet-mouthed laughter. Ae, sun . Listen. One particularly sharp sound— chee or a whistled kiss—hits my bare shoulder, and I fall. My scraped ankle stings with grit, tobacco spit, and blood. I resist the urge to scrape off the skin that was touched. My head swims. But I continue to run. And I make it. I stop and stare. It’s just the bridge: the crossing between who I am, who I want to be, and who I must be. It’s brighter than I imagined. Its scent is loamy and spicy, like irresistible quicksand pulling me in. They promised me this: the mud, its hold, and the vast expanse would wash away my sins and imperfections. Then, the stars, the moon, and all that was meant for the pure could be mine. Me: the maiden of grace and perfection. I only have to let it consume me. It might hurt, but it’ll be worth it. At first, it narrows at my stillness. But when I don’t move, it opens wider, deeper. It’s unfathomable to me. Is it… Waiting for me? I’m a tease. Aren’t I? It exhales my name, a soft whisper against the back of my ear. Maybe it’s trying to tempt me. But what I once mistook for affection is only hunger—lonely, needy, and ugly. I wince at the memory of the years I spent trying to be called, trying to be accepted by it, the years when the hope of one day belonging to something vast and boundaryless wrapped itself around every inch of my life. It covered everything: the cramped space I lived in, the certainty I clung to, the parts of me I didn’t dare dissolve: my wildest dreams, my unspeakable desires. I sit, spread my limbs, wheel-wing the space, muddying it with my selfishness. The flying dirt stings in its eyes. It mumbles curses. “I am tainted,” it announces. But it still needs me, like a wild creature settling for a corpse. When I look the other way, it roars an unkind wind at me. As time passes and I still don’t budge, it says it’s ready to worship me. It begs me to come in. Now, that’s tempting. I need to think. But then I hear them again, the stray, filthy ones I’d left behind. Cockroaches follow. Cockroaches will survive the end of the world. They’ll feed on your fossils. And some dogs are cockroaches. What were once just Ae, tch tch  sounds have formed language. “ Sun, item, ” it barks. Listen, you object. It wants my attention. So does this thing in front of me. “Get in line,” I say. This thing in front of me is slowly taking shape. It has boundaries, after all. And the shape isn’t much different from the ones behind me. “Oh, hello, item, are you deaf?” “You think you’re such an item?” Item. Item. Item. I sigh. At last, something I can agree with. I am an object—but not a thing to possess. I am a vision: untouchable, like a flame too dangerous to play with. I turn and blink. I make it all true, wearing their words like a crown. My eyes, a dark sea—not of longing or hunger, but of an abyss it dare not enter. They huff, mouths opening and closing in disbelief. Then they leave. Weeks later, when the story is told, parts are left out. Because who talks in depth about failed pursuits? Or rather, unworthy pursuits? It ends with a declaration: The shrew, the asking-for-it item, was a witch all along. They fiddle with their lockets meant to ward off evil, the evil being me. The one who didn’t break. The one who threw back their nasties, spell for spit. And I don’t deny it. I never do. Garima Chhikara is a writer from Bangalore, India. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Forge Literary Magazine, Hobart, Lost Balloon, Sky Island Journal, La Piccioletta Barca, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Halfway Down the Stairs. Find her at garimachhikara.com .

Jolowat dug through the box of half-priced items, pulling out a glass-fronted rectangular object.  “What’s this?” she asked the Elder running the sale. “It’s called a cell phone,” he replied. “They were used for communication—I found loads of them when I arrived here with the first settlement group. It hasn’t worked in ages, but would make an interesting conversation piece.” Jolowat nodded and walked over to pay him, reaching down to pat the tiny-headed human lying at the Elder’s feet. It was hard to believe that these dimwitted animals had once been intelligent enough to use such a device. Maria Carvalho’s multi-genre work has appeared in a variety of literary magazines, including  Roi Fainéant Press, MetaStellar, Free Flash Fiction, Twin Pies Literary, 101 Words, Literary Revelations , and  All Your Stories . Her short stories have been published in a smorgasbord of anthologies, including several titles in the Owl Hollow Press Anthology Series, and her poetry appears in several best-selling books from Literary Revelations. Her popular children's book  Hamster in Space!  was praised by Kirkus Indie Reviews for its "sharp understanding of kids' wacky sense of humor." Find her on Bluesky: @ immcarvalho.bsky.social  and Twitter: @ImMCarvalho .

Ma says I was a picky eater from birth. Wouldn’t drink the expensive formula she bought with clenched teeth. Ahma came, mixed porridge water with sugar, forced it down like medicine. Wouldn’t eat rice cereal. When they went to work in the orchard, they set me in a big bathtub with a bowl of plain porridge, my sister ordered to watch. Porridge smeared my face, neck, collar, sticky on my skin. Vegetables? Refused. Only rice with soy sauce. Not far from the mud house was a dump. Dead livestock, buzzing flies. When Ma stoked the fire, steam rose; flies dropped into the soup, black specks floating. Lychees? Rarely touched. Our orchard had plenty, but the fresh ones were for sale. Didn’t like the browned, slightly sour shells. Candy Ma bought? Maybe. But I longed for the White Rabbit brought by my uncle, who slipped into Hong Kong. One day, I dragged a stool, stretched for it. Ma beat me with a broom until bruises bloomed. Fish? Rejected. Sometimes she cut into the bitter gall. Pork? No. Hated the shriek when Ba slaughtered pigs, feared the bristling stubble on their skins. Snake? Never. Green ones slithered behind the mud house. At night, lamp in hand, I dreaded the thud in the woodshed. Something hitting the ground. But I liked bitter melon. Stir-fried, braised, no matter how sharp. So bitter my parents winced, but I savored it. Enjoyed green plums. My sister climbed the tree, I caught them below, dodging caterpillars dropping from branches. Loved watermelon. Once or twice a summer. Juice on my face, sticky fingers, licking them clean. Ate fried freshwater snails. Sucked hard; if they wouldn’t budge, I dug them out with a toothpick. Tongue numb from spice, couldn’t stop. Once loved chicken, especially drumsticks. Until we killed Redcomb. Redcomb, who crowed every dawn, fought rats, guarded chicks, strutted around the yard, head high, proud. Ma raised the cleaver. I stood nearby. Saw tears bead and fall from his eyes. Trust breaks. It shatters. Like Ba’s fist rising and falling on Ma. Huina Zheng holds an M.A. with Distinction in English Studies and works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in  Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal , and other reputed publications. Her work has been nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.

Engagement, April 2010 after Egg Toss, August 1989 In my memory the engagement happened to two adults, though we were anything but, with me fumbling my way through grad school, trying to act as an authority figure as a TA to students older than me, him working the front desk of a hotel so he always had a free place to stay when he traveled. We stay up late every night, drinking beer at a new- to-us bar or downing six-packs at home. We play Guitar Hero and watch episodes of Friends—even though I prefer Seinfeld—or anything on the Food Network. We pretend our opinions matter, pontificating about meat and cheese and toppings on our Burger Blog. It’s just an excuse to go out, take pictures of our food, and eat something greasy to soak up the beer. We don’t realize other people take it more seriously than us until a cattle ranch sends a cooler of ground meat to our apartment door and Sonic reaches out with a sponsorship, but by then, we hate burgers and can hardly stand each other. And it would be a lie to say the relationship was anything more than “just cuz.” We met because, in a city of transients, we were two people far from the same home. I avoided his type in high school but ignored the red flags in a new location. I wanted someone who didn’t spend sixty hours a week on campus, someone who didn’t need me to review their essay, someone who didn’t think I drank too much. In the house with four other TAs, I hide vodka in my room. With him, I’m free to drink beer and inhale burgers and pretend I’m going to drop out of school to become a comedian. And I can see how that felt like enough. When you have nothing going for you but this person who doesn’t expect anything from you. I understand why I said yes when he got down on one knee, surrounded by candles like Chandler, or was it Monica? And I knelt too, and it felt like this was ours, though it obviously wasn’t. In another moment the candles’ heat becomes too much and I’m sweating, and we blow them out one by one, and there are tears in my eyes but I wave off the smoke as an excuse while he looks at me with love because he thinks those tears are me, overcome with my love for him, but it’s not that at all. For that moment though, in my memory, my lying, longing memory, there’s only that room, our bodies, the heat, nowhere to go. I hear my housemates in the kitchen, see the stack of readings on my desk, imagine the bottle of vodka hidden in the drawer below. I look at the ring on my finger, the thin silver band, the diamond chips catching the last flame, the sparkling amethyst, something I would have chosen myself but didn’t, and he says, “Let’s celebrate,” but we don’t drink beer and we don’t eat burgers. We go to a diner and I order cereal because I can and I never have before, and I take the last soggy bite, thinking, “This isn’t like Seinfeld at all.” Allison Renner’s fiction has appeared in SoFloPoJo, Ink in Thirds, Atlas and Alice, Gooseberry Pie , and others. Her chapbooks include Green Light: The Gatsby Cycle  and Won’t Be By Your Side . She can be found at allisonrennerwrites.com  and on Bluesky @AllisonWrites .

Ignore my screams of pain because in contemporary  Society mortals scream not in pain but for love,  And what are mortals if not for a loveless world? so rip My lungs out, but hold my corpse because Eurydice  Had everything she ever asked for when Orpheus looked Back if only to check whether she was okay as they  Walked to the second chance they never got. Sometimes I look at my dog, and I want to cry Because what are lives if not temporary, What is a mortal if not hereditary? because I am My mother’s heart and her melatonin habits but my Father’s rage and his overtly fast metabolism so I grind my teeth in my sleep so that my nose doesn’t Grow any longer with the lies it is taught to tell Because what am I if not fake? I talk pretty so they don’t see the rapacious desires That lie under my bones like carnal nothings, and  Sometimes late at night I look at myself in the Mirror and see myself through Aphrodite’s eyes As she looked at Psyche and wonder where is my Eros? But what is a mortal if not a heart beating For no one? so hold my hand as I go to church. Jiwon Huh is a junior attending Korea International School. She is an avid poet and attended the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, as well as the online Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. She has been previously published in Johns Hopkins CTY Lexophilia and Apotheca Journal.

Why Sex Therapists Hate The Simpsons                                                                         You’d think being a sex therapist would be stimulating. (Pun intended. I long to be a writer.) But it’s soooo boring. Same old, same old. Infidelity. Fear of sexual intimacy—yes, ex-husband #1, that’s you with your computer and spreadsheets after making love—difficulties achieving orgasm, mismatched libidos; now you’re up, ex-husband # 2. As a Scorpio you should have been in heat 24/7 but noooo by our second year of marriage it was excuse after excuse, but you showed your Scorpio colors when you hired that detective to spy on me and my horse ranch lover which I discovered only because the detective got gouged on the barbed wire fence and his howls disturbed us in our nest of fresh laundry. WAY more interesting than anything that goes on in my office, where another wife whines about her husband’s porn addiction. You’d think I’d hear mesmerizing stories from clients discussing compulsive sexual behaviors, but THEY’RE ALL SO PREDICTABLE!!!  Not like you, ex-husband # 3; when you taught The Tempest,  we had to role play every combination of characters fucking: Caliban and Ariel, Stephano and Trinculo, Prospero and Antonio. And when you were obsessed with The Simpsons , you could only come when I was Marge Simpson wearing that godawful blue wig moaning, “Homer, Homer.” And omg, that time you decided my orgasms should peak at 11 seconds. If I was still climaxing, you’d shout, Alexa, play “Disco Duck.” Oh, how I wish you’d been my client.   Sweet Stuff                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Jason loved whipped cream and sex. He licked it off Maureen’s breasts, had her lick it off his balls. Maureen was a librarian. She wanted to prove she wasn’t a prude. But the whole thing made her gag. And everything got so sticky. “Hey, the end is always sticky. Right?” her husband said. “You know I love you, sweetie.” He slapped her ass playfully, turning to the T.V. to watch The Dallas Cowboys. *** Maureen loved whipped cream and sex. But Jason hated it—it was downright weird. Especially since she was a kindergarten teacher! But he loved Maureen so he put up with it once a month. Now, however, Maureen wouldn’t make love—actually she used the “F” word, which made Jason cringe—unless whipped cream was involved. Then she insisted they go to Good Vibrations and browse. She wanted to buy a vibrator and other things Jason couldn’t even say out loud. He shuddered.  *** Maureen and Jason loved whipped cream and sex. They were both artists and what was more artful than sex? They experimented with whipped cream bikinis topped with cherries, nipple strawberries. She had multiple orgasms when he licked chocolate sauce off her upper thighs. *** Jason loved whipped cream and sex. Maureen hated it, especially since he decided whipped cream was getting boring and now wanted her to lick maple syrup off his body. Honey. Warm pudding. She could say no. She was a VP in tech, in charge of hundreds. One day she did say no. “You fat bitch,” said Jason. He unzipped his pants and smeared his cock with caramel sauce. “Suck it,” he commanded. She did. On his birthday, she surprised him. New negligee. A gift box with delectable treats. Seductive smile. She tied his hands with silk scarves. She painted him with honey, molasses, sugar. He moaned more intensely than she’d ever heard. “The pièce de   resistance,” she purred, opening a jar, pouring. The fire ants spilled out. Rocket Mom                                                                                                                    After Mom leaves and Dad grows more obsessed with model rockets, Elle and I are no longer content to play our five senses games, like tasting rain and smelling stones. Instead, we write Mom into Elton John’s song “Rocket Man.” In “Rocket Mom,” we make her destruct for all kinds of reasons.  Her launch lugs bleed into her body tube. Her thrust and burn rate increase too quickly. She slashes her parachute line. In other versions of “Rocket Mom,” her launch is seamless, and she shoots all the way to the exosphere, mingling with aurora borealis, those green swirling ribbons of light.         I could go on and on and on, rewriting our song. But my sister grows bored. She goes with Dad to a model rocket exhibition one day. Dad helps her start a model rocket club in her fourth-grade class.         I start middle school. I watch Elle and Dad build and launch their first rocket with a plastic body tube and a bright red nose cone. They name it Rudolph. I watch them build and launch Skywalker, Falcon, Phoenix, Starfire. I start high school.         A boy. Older than me. Drawn by the rockets my father is small-time famous for now, but soon drawing me in charcoal. My hands, my face. He explains that drawing charcoal is made of willow branches or grape vines. I tell Dad and Elle this, but they are deep in a discussion about fiberglass vs. quantum tubing.         The boy draws my breasts in watercolor pencils. He teaches me about tones and shades, smudge factors. For my birthday, he paints me in a forest of rockets, flowers growing from their nose cones. He calls me beloved.          Mom fires back into our lives. Words explode between her and dad, tangled rebar and pulverized concrete. Debris pelts us.         I tell no one about the baby growing inside my 15-year-old body. Only the boy. Who is tender and lullabies me with his plans of flight for us. I lie in bed, stroking my belly. Elle’s steady breathing, rain tinkling against the window. I think of how we used to tilt our heads up to the sky and name the flavors of rain.  Claudia Monpere’s flash appears in Split Lip, SmokeLong Quarterly, Craft, Flash Frog, Trampset, The Forge,  and elsewhere. She won the 2024 New Flash Fiction Prize from New Flash Fiction Review , the Genre Flash Fiction Prize from Uncharted Magazine , and the 2023 Smokelong Workshop Prize. She has stories in Best Small Fictions 2024 and 2025 and Best Microfiction 2025.

The St Augustine Diet Osceola, Billy P, starved himself just so, slipped like soap through the window and the grasp, chiefly on his own, and away yet again. The air as thick as he was now thin; hot as he was cunning, tenacious, so full of mosquitoes. The hope wafted around, flitted everywhere, little helicopters  looking for a purchase that matters. R James Sennett Jr lives, works, breathes and chases his muse in Louisville, Kentucky. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications for which he is grateful.